


Touch

by GildedOrchid



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, bit of angst, bittersweet smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-10
Updated: 2013-09-10
Packaged: 2017-12-26 04:39:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/961655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GildedOrchid/pseuds/GildedOrchid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's this thing brewing between them, but it's never the right time or place save for those stolen, indulgent moments when they seem to come alive...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Touch

 

 

 

Twenty breems.   
  
By all rights Prowl should be on the way to Iacon, to their primary base. Prime is expecting him, awaiting his final reports on their newest detachment. It is not much to report—Ultra Magnus is a good leader (no matter how reluctant he is to assume the mantle of command) and the third battalion is in good form (especially impressive because the Wreckers and the Dynobots are under the same roof but the base is still standing). There is nothing urgent in his reports, and twenty breems is all he can spare before he has to be on his way if he expects to meet his transport on time.  
  
He could have simply bypassed this particular base.   
  
He  _should_  have bypassed this base.  
  
Every orn was one that might see either of them killed, merely the latest casualty of a war that they had been fighting too long. They should be focused on any one of their dozen duties, should be crafting their latest strike against the enemy, should be doing any number of things except this.   
  
Twenty breems, after two stellar-cycles apart.  
  
It is a pittance.   
  
It is an eternity.   
  
Jazz is mewling in Prowl's audials, caught up in a building overload. His visor is glowing a vibrant blue-white, his sensor horns are burning from the double assault of Prowl's mouth and the unabashed filth the tactician is murmuring, and his moans are desperate and broken as his lover relentlessly works in and over him.   
  
“Primus, Prowl! I— _nnngh_ —I—  _YESSS_...” Jazz’s hands convulsively grip at the hip wiring they are currently tangled in, and Prowl hisses in pleasure before slamming Jazz back against the wall and focusing on the saboteur's sensitive neck cabling.   
  
They haven't put a name to this...thing between them, the desperate attraction that flared up between them like a lightning strike across charged atmosphere. Jazz won't put name to it; he considers emotions a hindrance in his line of work. They can be used against you with such deadly precision, leave you compromised at the worst moments. Prowl doesn't know if it is what Jazz truly believes, or if it is a learned aversion, cultivated throughout his career in Special Operations. Jazz cleverly dances around verbally acknowledging what he feels, letting his actions speak for themselves. Prowl does not mind; he has had vorns of practice interpreting Jazz’s body language, and more importantly he can always feel the depth Jazz’s emotions through their bond, sense it in his spark. He doesn’t have to hear any particular words to know that fundamental truth.  
  
Prowl is accepting of emotions—can even account for them in his own particularly logical way—but he can't quite define what lies between he and Jazz outside of a scant few adjectives that don't fit properly. How does one define such overwhelming feeling? How do you measure such overwhelming need? He would have to pick everything apart, qualify every aspect, interpret every interaction. Whatever it is between them, however, is too delicate, too cryptic to bear up under that sort of scrutiny. He would likely end up destroying it in his pursuit to understand.  
  
He hasn’t accepted anything at face value since he was a fresh recruit in the Military Academy and too naïve to know any better. This though, this he accepts without question, without truly understanding all of its many layers. In this one thing, he is content to simply possess. This thing between them exists, and that is enough.   
  
Another time, another place perhaps, they might have explored the emotions that run so fiercely between them, might have put a name to these urges to claim, to yield to the other.   
Mine. It suffices for now, but is poised to evolve into something greater. Something that carries more depth, that is not limited to shallow possessiveness. Something like lo—no.   
  
They don't dare bring that into this; they've gone too far already.   
  
It is stupid and reckless, the two most dangerous and hunted mechs in the army crafting themselves into the other's greatest weakness with every stolen moment between them. As if there aren't assassination orders on either of them. As if Prowl doesn't realize that eventually Jazz isn't going to come back from one of his insanely hazardous missions. As if Jazz thinks Prowl can defy his own looming end, somehow dodge that inevitable laser bolt with his designation on it.   
  
They expect each other to cheat death, to somehow flout all probability and continue to desperately wrench every possible astrosecond they can from Fate's miserly grasp. For all their hopes however, Jazz is a realist and Prowl pragmatic; they are living on borrowed time.   
  
They should have pushed the other away, should have avoided this entanglement. It's too risky, it threatens their professional detachment, and...and it makes the inevitable all the worse. At this juncture, someone is going to end up hurt. They long ago passed the point of casual interfacing, and when Jazz’s luck runs out or Prowl’s logic fails him, the other will be left to deal with the emptiness and agony of loss. They are too deep inside each other now, and dancing perilously close to that final line—that line that means that it doesn’t matter who goes first because the other won’t survive the loss anyway.   
  
They are foolish or greedy or both, because they refuse to relent. They are flirting with disaster, and all it will take is one careless admission, one last barrier removed between them and they are finished. Gone over that line and past any point of return.  
  
They should have stopped this from erupting between them, and Jazz actually tried. However, 'should have' does not necessarily trump 'can do', and Jazz made it all of three vorns before jumping Prowl in the middle of one of their strategy sessions, his good intentions left in ashes.   
  
Prowl hadn't even bothered resisting. He'd laid his life on the altar of Prime's war a long time ago, and damned if he was going to bypass any opportunity to get *something* back in return for his sacrifice. A perfect complement to his abilities? A mech that understands him at his most fundamental levels, and is capable of matching him in any capacity? Someone that seems to set him free with every touch? Jazz makes him perfect (something he has always strived for), makes him content (something he never dared hope for), makes him alive (his existence before Jazz is cold and pale) and those reasons are payment enough.  
  
It's more than enough.   
  
Prowl toys oh so delicately with the wires that link up to Jazz's stereo systems, distracting his partner from his other hand's journey. Not that he really needs to bother with discretion at this point. Jazz is clinging to Prowl, a white leg wrapped around the tactician's waist and his arms now draped over the mech's shoulders. Prowl trembles as Jazz claws at his back, the air charging electric around them as they draw closer and closer to the brink of what promises to be a fantastic overload. Clever digits reach their goal, release a well-hidden spring in Jazz's back paneling, and Prowl hums a smug note into Jazz's neck cables as he releases a pair of rarely exposed white doorwings.   
  
“ _Frag_ , mech, must you?” Jazz's protest is ruined, underscored by the loud revving of his engine and the surge of  _pleasure/surprise/anticipation_  he projects.  
  
“ _Oh yes_.” Prowl's voice is husky and low, the lust-ridden Praxian accent setting off sensor flares in Jazz's audials.  
  
They are one of his favorite parts of Jazz's frame, but the saboteur rarely displays them. He hates them, actually. Prowl knows Jazz would remove them, but they prove occasionally useful. That, and Jazz knows that Prowl would never forgive him. The pale white panels are usually tucked away under the mech's roof because they are a dangerous liability in Jazz's line of work—too easy a target, too large an opportunity to outright incapacitate Jazz with little effort. Doorwings are sensitive just by their very natures, but all Jazz's sensors are more finely calibrated than almost any other bot’s, and especially those. Sadly, it absolutely does not help that Jazz's tendency to hide them has made them even more sensitive.   
  
Okay, that's a lie.   
  
It's absolutely  _wonderful_ , because there are these beautiful crooning little noises Jazz produces whenever Prowl gets his hands on those gracefully shaped panels, and the sound sends a warm shiver through his diodes. It's addicting, that fierce sensation of  _pleasure/pain/lust_  that blows through their shared link, and yeah, he totally gets off on the fact that it's him dragging those erotic little noises out of Jazz, that it's him that gets to fondle the most secret parts of the deadliest mech in their faction, that it's him, him,  _him_  that's got Jazz pinned against the command center wall and wailing to Primus as he shudders and grinds and arches up and against his frame in desperate pursuit of a release Prowl will only allow when he is good and ready.  
  
That won’t be anytime soon; he only has twenty breems, and he sure as slag intends to savor every single one before going without another stellar cycle.   
  
Prowl bites down gently on a twitching doorwing, punctuating the action with a deep thrust into his lover's valve, and Jazz throws his head back and screams. Prowl watches the last shreds of Jazz's coherency flare up and fade away (along with a fuse or two), and does not relent.  
  
He is a very thorough mech, after all.   
  
Once he sets himself to a task he refuses to accept anything less than optimal results. Do it right or not all. Jazz would insist the rule is 'Do it with style or not at all' but the mech is in no condition to argue now; Jazz is quite overwhelmed and unable to think straight.   
  
Prowl is no better off.  
  
Stealing twenty breems from a too-tight schedule where every astrosecond matters? Sneaking into a base and ghosting down the corridors like a thief instead of strolling in like the Second in Command of the entire Autobot army he is? Overriding the security codes and locking the command center so he can have his way with the base's commanding officer before hightailing it for Iacon?  
  
These are not the actions of a properly cognizant individual.   
  
Prowl decides he will simply write this off as something that made sense at the time when he muses over this interlude after he returns.   
  
It has been too long since they've seen each other, held each other, merged with each other. Prowl is determined to make the most of each breem he's allowed himself, but his partner is holding back, and while he's accepted the fact that Jazz is elusive at the best of times, this will not abide. They both have their share of secrets, but he wants, he needs. After two stellar-cycles of restraint, of telling himself this mech is not essential to his being and the spark-pull he ignores is merely juvenile sentimentality, Prowl gives in. He has longed, has fantasized, and now that he is finally able to claim his due, he will not tolerate anything less than all of Jazz.  
  
Prowl knows that Jazz isn't exactly forthcoming about anything regarding his actual emotions; this is the mech that spent three vorns in full denial of a spark-synch, after all. Jazz doesn't reveal things easily, but Prowl has always been able to pry apart Jazz's emotional shields; it helps that this is a token effort (at best).   
  
Jazz has been in just as dire straits as Prowl, and it is only the dread of their inevitable separation that makes him hold back. Why open himself up so much if it is only going to earn him the pain of separation? It would have been easier on him if Prowl had never come, had let him retreat into his carefully erected shells and pretend like his spark wasn't wheeling across Cybertron's expanse in pursuit of its other half.   
  
It would have been easier, but Jazz is not one to take the easy way out, and he misses Prowl as well. Prowl would not have passed this close to Jazz without some sort of interlude. It is just as well he stopped; Jazz would have ambushed him at his rendezvous point the moment the bases perimeter scans detected Prowl’s presence (and they would, because Jazz is almost as stringent about security measures as Red Alert sometimes). At least they’re inside this time.   
  
Jazz releases a startled yelp as Prowl suddenly pulls him completely away from the wall and dumps him on the nearby conference table. The yelp morphs into a cry of pure bliss when Prowl pins his hands down and starts thrusting into him with long, measured strokes that only amplify his skyrocketing pleasure with every occurrence and that token resistance crumbles.   
  
Jazz is just as in need of this as Prowl.   
  
Prowl murmurs obscene praises into Jazz's audial, let's a tapered finger brush over a sensitive set of internal nodes inside Jazz's doorwings, and the saboteur arches with a wordless cry. He doesn't get very far, is slammed back against the table as Prowl surges over him,, shuddering as Jazz's valve clamps tightly over his spike. They are almost to the point of no return now, each of them furiously working towards an overload just out of reach, and Prowl swears to himself that this detour really was the best idea he's had in vorns.   
  
He assumes Jazz agrees. Speech and coherency might have been blown away, but those wonderful croons and gasps and needy little whimpers flowing from his vocalizer tell the story well enough.   
  
Prowl seeks after more of the tantalizing sounds, nips sharply at a cluster of sensitive lines in Jazz's neck, and the mech mewls and drapes a monochrome leg across his flank, trying to pin him flush against overheated armor. Prowl obliges and slides open his chest plating, revealing an icy-blue spark that immediately begins to send tendrils out, searching for its perfect match that is so near. Jazz is quick to accommodate, the rich blue-violet tendrils of his own spark eagerly tangling with Prowl's as they crash and fall into each other with mutual cries of ecstasy.   
  
It feels like flying, like free fall, like perfection.  
  
A burst of warm emotion spirals through their bond, and Prowl revels in the intensity.  
  
What else is there to do except meet Jazz on equal terms? Prowl lets his own feelings of love and affection flow between their sparks, laying everything bare between them. They would never be sure whose overload triggered first, but it doesn't matter. Prowl's world tilts on end and explodes in a wash of passion and light, echoes from Jazz's overload blazing through the connection and hiking the sensations to further heights.   
  
When he comes back to himself, it is to discover that he has collapsed into a chair  _(when had they moved?_ ) with Jazz tucked against him, visor dimmed to a deep blue-violet and engines running with a contented purr.   
  
“I missed ya.” Jazz's fingers trace lazy glyphs over the tactician's armor as his murmur breaks the calm.   
  
“As have I.”  
  
“...aren't you supposed to be in Iacon?” There is a gentle rebuke underneath the humored affection, and Prowl feels a fleeting moment of chagrin. He covers it with an arch look at the saboteur nestled comfortably within the contours of his plating.   
  
“You say such nice things in the afterglow, sweetspark.”   
  
Prowl's voice is a study in dripping sarcasm and it does not go unnoticed by Jazz, who swats apathetically at him. Prowl ignores the gentle blow, instead shifting to make himself more comfortable in the chair as he tucks Jazz a bit more securely against him.   
  
“It kills me. The great scourge of the Decepticon and Autobot factions, the mighty cold-sparked Prowl himself, is a cuddler.” Jazz’s voice is ripe with teasing humor, a sure sign of his good mood. Most bots like their berth-talk full of affection and tenderness. Jazz’s version? Relentless mockery. Prowl smirks, deciding that he may as well give as good as he’s getting.   
  
“I certainly don’t recall you protesting, Jazz.”  
  
“ Well, as delightful as your conjugal visits are, you didn’t really leave me much of an opportunity to speak.”  
  
“ Oh, you were quite vocal about  _something_.”  
  
“Shut up.”   
  
They lapse into a companionable silence, simply basking in the others presence for a few moments. Jazz continues to trace lazy whorls over Prowl's armor, all too comfortable in the tactician's embrace. Prowl revels in the too-rare caresses, optics alight with pleasure and an even more rare sense of contentment. There are no words needed here, not with the weight of unspoken truth ripe between them, woven through their bond. It is in these moments that Prowl feels closest to naming what lies between them. It feels like want, like necessity, a lot like love.   
  
This is no good.  
  
They have both been carefully dancing around putting name to what lies between them, because this is it. This is love, and the moment either of them drags that out into the open they are ruined. They barely are able to endure these long separations, are barely able to cope with the fact that they must keep such a careful distance between themselves lest they compromise their positions. They can maintain this ruse so long as they are able to deny just what they are to each other. It is a flimsy attempt, doomed to failure from that first spark-shattering merge.   
  
Prowl abandons the train of thought, preferring to dwell on more pleasant things while he still can. He draws Jazz into a leisurely kiss, enjoying the sensation while taking care not to let it escalate any further because there’s only a few breems left and—  
  
A sharp beeping breaks their moment, and Jazz grimaces at the sound that is a bit too high-pitched for his comfort.   
  
Prowl grunts softly in irritation and moves to stand up, pulling Jazz along with him. Twenty breems together after a full stellar-cycle apart. A new low.   
  
“How long until—?” Jazz hesitates. He’s not one to complain about assignments, nor does he resent the fact that his position often means he spends more time away from the primary base than he does there. It *has* been a while, however, even with the knowledge that this was an open ended assignment. Prime hadn’t wanted to send Jazz, but he couldn’t spare Prowl, and with Ultra Magnus based at Beta Chiron there were no others with enough experience or the proper rank.  
  
“One more stellar-cycle. We should have a suitable commander trained within that time.”  
  
Jazz nods, reluctantly stepping away. “I guess ya gotta be on ya way, then.”   
  
“I’m expected.”  
  
Jazz deflates. “Duty calls.”   
  
Duty always calls. There is always something demanding his time, or Prowl’s time, and they’ll go the rest of their lives pushing each other aside for a greater good until one of them falters, gives in to the maelstrom and to the Pit with any other obligations. Jazz knows it will be him; he gave in first, began this. He isn’t strong enough to stay away—he never was—and it grows increasingly difficult to defer. There is a line between want and need, but it has blurred and strained itself thin to the point of non-existence. There is no going back, no salvaging this. He is fighting against the inevitable, and starting out ill-equipped and on the wrong foot.   
  
It sits heavy on his spark, this bittersweet emotion that stirs whenever Prowl is near. Every moment is exhilaration, his spark settling into a perfect synch as a rightness fills his world. Quick on its heels is dread, because he knows it won’t last; it will only ever be brief interludes and stolen time, and it gets harder to accept. It is enough for now, but it won’t always be that way. He is getting so very tired of having his spark ripped out by the mech he loves, is tired of inflicting that same pain.   
  
He wonders if Prowl feels the same, but doesn’t need to speculate because the mech is staring at him like a starving mech gazes upon energon and horror goes through his circuits  _because he just broadcasted that over the bond_  and there’s no way he can play this off, and Prowl should have just stayed away because now it’s all out in the open, and—  
  
Prowl jerks Jazz back into his embrace, scattering sweet kisses across his brow, his face, his lips, swearing that soon, somehow, they’ll make time between each desperate one.   
  
Jazz’s circuits flare alive, and he clutches just as tightly at Prowl, burning this moment deep into his memory banks. He tries to crawl inside Prowl’s armor, reciprocating every kiss with a touch, a stroke, a caress and there is a dangerous moment where both of them seem ready to give in, finish this and damn everything else, but Prowl just barely restrains himself and Jazz buries his helm in the crook of his lover’s neck. The air is charged between them again and they can feel bridges burning, can feel that nebulous web of emotion they refuse to nurture become a tangible thing between them, merging with the pre-existing bond created by virtue of their synched sparks.   
  
The inevitable looms nearer, and Jazz slips from Prowl’s grasp, looking away from the face of temptation. They can’t, not now. His spark hammers against its casing, longing to finally complete what was begun so long ago. Prowl is rigid, restraint radiating from him, and he does not doubt the tactician is fighting his own internal war with his spark.   
  
He doesn’t know where he finds the strength, but Jazz suddenly turns away. He still sneaks one last caress of Prowl’s armor as he slips by, heading towards the command chair he previously occupied.   
  
“You’ll be late.”   
  
Jazz’s flat reminder effectively murders the mood—something Prowl will be grateful for later, but not right now, not when he is still reeling. Not when there is so much that needs to be addressed.   
  
His comm unit chimes, and on cue Tracks’ voice filters in.   
  
//Prowl, sir? Where are you?//  
  
Prowl’s expression becomes a grimace of frustration. He’s never late. //I am almost there, Tracks. Please excuse the tardiness.//  
  
//It’s no problem. I’ll be waiting. Autobot Tracks out.//  
  
Jazz does not even look at him, and Prowl knows it is because neither of them have the strength to deny the other to their face. He allows himself another moment to watch Jazz piece himself back together, recreating the cool and collected mask he prefers to display.   
  
Prowl forces himself to step back from the precipice they are in danger of falling from, turning on his heel and briskly heading for the exit. He pauses briefly in the doorway, ramrod straight and resolutely staring ahead. “Goodbye, Jazz.”  
  
“Travel safe, Prowl.” Jazz settles back in the command chair, gazing at the riveted floor instead of at Prowl, or at the monitors that will soon display the tactician’s departure.   
  
Prowl slips through the corridors and into the darkness of Cybertron's blasted landscape, transforming and speeding away towards his pick-up point, falling deeper into the muted half-life that waits to reclaim him outside of Jazz’s presence. He can feel his spark reaching out, yearning for something just out of reach, and shoulders the feeling aside, wrapping his sparkache in thick layers of professionalism and discipline. He can’t dwell on this any longer; not right now.   
  
There is no time for them.   
  
This is nothing but a headlong rush into pain and disaster.   
  
It is foolish and reckless and greedy, but somehow, here in these cherished secret moments, somehow still it's enough.   
  
If only because it has to be.

 

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Intermission](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1256728) by [crabapplered](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crabapplered/pseuds/crabapplered)




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